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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23280328">Arwen Sees Ghosts</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmethystTribble/pseuds/AmethystTribble'>AmethystTribble</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works &amp; Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Exactly What It Says on the Tin, F/M, Fëanorian Week 2020, Gen, The major character death is Arwen by the way, Written for, and I was like... (pushes them together), and like... the freaking dead ghosts haunting her, each of the boys + Nerdanel gets a chapter, my explanation for this is only that i think Arwen is cool and I think the Feanorians are cool</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 09:47:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,110</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23280328</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmethystTribble/pseuds/AmethystTribble</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Arwen is haunted by eight- seven? six? <em>five?</em> It was hard to tell some days- spirits her whole life. She comes to know them all rather well.</p><p>Chapter 1: Feanor (the Premise) / Chapter 2: Maedhros (Himring) / Chapter 3: Maglor (Music and Songs of Power) / Chapter 4: Celegorm (Hunting) / Chapter 5: Caranthir (Marriage) / Chapter 6: Curufin (Teacher) / Chapter 7: Ambarussa (Regrets) / Chapter 8: Nerdanel (Reunion)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>119</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>213</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Feänaró</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The flame is always flickering at the corner of Arwen’s eye, and she doesn’t remember life without it. As a babe she would try and snatch at it, reaching for the flame. Sometimes, it would reach back. </p>
<p>When that happened, the flame never burned. It tickled, it soothed, it was warm and comforting and safe. Arwen’s hand would wrap around a mass of colors that felt almost like a hand. The flame smothered down her hair, every now and again. Sometimes it moved out of the corner of her eye and into where she could really see. But that was only when the flame looked almost like an Elf, which it did rarely. </p>
<p>When Arwen was upset, though- perhaps weeping or unable to sleep or in pain- her flame enveloped her. It kissed her forehead and embraced her. She’d hear whispers, so close to really being there, to being a voice. Her flame danced and sang, and Arwen was no longer upset. </p>
<p>With furrowed brows and recognition in his eyes, Father asked where she’d learned the flame’s song, a simple lullaby, all in Quenya. </p>
<p>And Arwen grinned.</p>
<p>“From Great-Grandfather.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Nelyafinwë</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arwen travels to Himring to try to understand.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They wisps followed Arwen wherever she went, bright sparks of spirit that hovered around her ears, her ankles, her lower back.</p><p>They were in different shades, and had different voices, and swayed, bobbed and danced differently; individually. She could never quite tell if there were six or seven or eight presensces, but Arwen knew them all. She couldn’t always see them, but she could hear their whispers. Suggestions and loving advice, some days, anger and sorrow on others. Sometimes, her wisps sang her to sleep. Mostly they just kept her warm, and made sure that Arwen was never, never alone.</p><p>As a child, they delighted her; as an adolescent, they frightened her. As a grown elleth, two months past her one hundredth begetting day, Arwen was determined to understand. </p><p>Armed with suspicions and guesses and a promise from her grandmother that whatever haunted her was benign, Arwen left home. </p><p>She begged Mother and Father for the opportunity to take a trip on her own, and then rode west. Faster and faster, she pushed her poor horse; past the Dúnedain in the north and over the mountains of Ered Luin. Arwen made for the coast, her wisps telling her about danger all the while.</p><p><em>Wolves and wargs on the east wind</em>, the smith warned.</p><p><em>Nasty type of Men in that inn</em>, the trader promised.</p><p><em>Those rocks, mind stepping on those rocks</em>, the two urged in one voice, as always.</p><p>The hunter just growled when Arwen veered in certain directions, made certain decisions. She didn’t quite understand his sounds, but she always heeded his instincts. He was typically right about danger lurking beneath the feet of stupid little girls stepping on thin ice.</p><p>The king was unusually silent, but Arwen had expected that.</p><p>All the while, her fire kept her warm during the journey and the clamoring, humming words she couldn’t quite make out and guiding her heart. </p><p>The singer was harder to grasp.</p><p>Unlike the others, his spirit was spread out far across the land rather than condenscened. The singer was still tethered to something, Arwen suspected, though his feä was more malleable than any other she knew, wandered farther than anyone else she knew. As the Men she’d paid to sail her out to the ‘cursed’ island on the horizon loosed the sails, Arwen thought that she almost heard her singer’s voice on the shore.</p><p>	The Men said they'd wait for her only until sundown, when she stepped out onto the rocky shore. Arwen must have agreed to this, but she hardly remembered their words or her own. She was too occupied with the ruin- the majesty- before her.</p><p>	Up and up a rocky landscape rose a lone mountain peak, and on top, within, around it was a fortress.The wooden doors had long since rotten away, as had the upper floors and interim buildings. But the stone and occasional works of steel remained. They were overrun with moss and mildew and birds. There wasn’t much life here, but what was present felt strong and jealous to Arwen. The critters in the crumbling arches, the lone tree in the courtyard, the mollusks in the drowned lower rooms; they all seemed to guard the once great Himring. They were guarding their master.</p><p>The Star of Feanor haunted these halls</p><p>	Arwen stalked through the ruined stone, trying to imagine this place as the chiefest bastion against the Enemy. It wasn’t hard, all Arwen had to do was close her eyes and let them in. Her ghosts clustered around her, and filled the blanks.</p><p>	When she opened her eyes again, it was to the illusion of Himring in all its glory. Rosy floors, and stately tapestries, and warm fires in opulent fireplaces, and bristling battlements with weapons on all sides. In the center of this great hold, where two inches of water still chilled Arwen’s feet- felt but not seen- was a grand hall. </p><p>	Amid carven columns, beneath a grand seat, framed by flickering lamps, wealth on all sides, there was a single presence.</p><p>	There stood the king.</p><p>	He was wreathed by red light, which curled and twisted his hair like a flame. He was tall- unfairly so- and scarred like no other she had ever seen. When he raised an arm towards her, his open-palmed hand was a slightly different color from the rest of him, as if burned by a brighter fire than what fueled his soul.</p><p>	“Elrondiel,” the king boomed, shuddering the water and rocking the crumbling walls, though his tone was soft. Himring simply shook to hear him. “What do you gain by coming here?”</p><p>	“I seek you,” Arwen replied, the salt in the air and acrid smell of marring burning her nose. One could tell the Enemy had been here, had polluted what once was good and light. It made her nervous, and angry. Righteous fury was growing in her chest, and she took an aggressive step forward.</p><p>	“I’ve come to understand why you haunt me!” she yelled over the whispering winds. “Why you follow me and me alone! What you want from me! I’ve come to understand <em>who you are!</em>”</p><p>	“You know who I am, Elrondiel,” the king replied.</p><p>	“Why!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, tears coming to her eyes and her throat burning. “Why!” Desperately, Arwen tried to project her feä to make her point. It didn’t disturb Himring in the least.</p><p>	“You have inherited some of your father’s gifts, some of your grandmother’s gifts. For this, it is you and you alone who can hear us, feel us, <em>see</em> us. We flocked to you like a moth seeking light, thusly. But we would have left you be, had you wanted us to.”</p><p>	Arwen knew it was true, but his line of reasoning also didn’t seem fair to her. When she’d been scared and cried because of the presence of disembodied spirits- fearing them the Enemy- they’d all fled her side for the first time in her life. Then Arwen wept for their sudden absence, the unexpected loneliness, the silence. They’d been with her all her life. Of course she would miss that familiarity, and desire it. </p><p>	As always, Arwen did not need to explain her annoyance, her rebuttal. Her ghosts understood her, and flared anxiously. Except to the king, who remained impassive.</p><p>	“Who are you?” Arwen whispered at him again.</p><p>	“You know.”</p><p>	“Who are you!”</p><p>	This time, the king disappeared, and the halls of Himring were once more thrown in ruin. </p><p>	“Come back here!” Arwen screamed, splashing forward desperately and turning her face to the sky, as there was no ceiling. “Come back here and answer me! All of you! Why would I want you? Answer me that! Why would I want you, and you me!”</p><p>	There was only silence. </p><p>	“Answer me!” Arwen commanded, “Answer me, Maedhros!”</p><p>	All around her, the mossy, crumbling walls of Himring shook. Then, in shock, Arwen screamed again.</p><p>	“Maedhros Feanorion!” she called, and the rockbed beneath her feet shuddered.</p><p>	“King of the Noldor!” There was a great crash in the distance.</p><p>	“Kinslayer!” The throne at the front of the hall shattered.</p><p>	“Self-slain!” A fissure opened in the ground.</p><p>	“Lord of Himring!” The water at her ankles grew hot as it rapidly drained away, almost pulling Arwen with it.</p><p>	“Grandfather!” Arwen wailed at the top of her lungs. And everything stopped. Himring grew still and quiet, eerily so. As if all the ghosts had suddenly fled.</p><p>	But Arwen finally had her answer.</p><p>	<em>That is why they stay with me,</em> she thought. Then deep within her, she felt a touch. It was Maedhros; and all she felt from him was love.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Himring as a location in the later ages is really underused, I think. </p><p>I would like the time to flesh this, and the coming vignettes, out a little bit, buuuuttttt, I think you can all imagine how life is at present. Self-isolation has made me busier, not otherwise. And tbh, it's just hard to want to write right now. But I'm doing it anyway! Because it makes me happy to see this idea realized, even if it's difficult.</p><p>I hope you like it! Thank you for any comments and/or kudos you feel inclined to leave, and thank you for reading in general!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Kanafinwë</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arwen goes beach hunting, and considers what First Age power truly was.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He was not a ghost like the others, but his spirit was so large it might as well have been. </p>
<p>	<em>Maglor</em>, was his name, was what Father called him in rare, whispered stories, and it was the title Arwen gave to the presence that encompassed the western lands. He existed as a soft song on the wind. The tendrils of that powerful voice would tickle the back of Arwen’s neck some days, then she and her ghosts would turn to look towards the sea. </p>
<p>	After Himring, she lingered on the shores. </p>
<p>There were no prints in the sand, but Arwen did not need any physical marks to follow. His feä made him a beacon, and the remnants of his voice left a trail as clear to her inner senses as black ink would be to her eyes. The notes were weeks, days, hours old, but Arwen heard them, and she followed steadily.</p>
<p>They were all sad. Dirges and laments and wails of mourning. How does one explain grief for an entire continent and then the individuals in one, continuous, age-long song? </p>
<p>Maglor’s songs were large, both in physical range and subject matter and depth of capacity. Arwen felt that she would find something nearly eldritch in its age and power. It frightened and excited her as she wandered up and down a haunted beach, looking for a ghost that simply would not show himself.</p>
<p>
  <em>Dratted inconvenient. Just when I want one around.</em>
</p>
<p>The other wisps clamored, all with varying tones about their brother and his absence.</p>
<p>The trader- Caranthir, she dared to name him- he was grumbly. <em>Macalaurë is dramatic. Damn the first day he picked up the harp.</em></p>
<p>The fire wrapped warmly around her ears, as if to shield Arwen from Caranthir’s slander against his brother’s craft. She laughed alongside the two, Ambarussa. The smith flared in annoyance, but Maedhros jumped to Maglor’s defense. <em>Dramatic but true. He loves, and that is why he stays away. He fears himself cursed.</em></p>
<p><em>Cursed, true, loving</em>, Arwen replied cheekily, <em>but you also name him dramatic.</em></p>
<p>Before there was a reply, the hunter howled. He’d been stalking forward, forging the best trail for Arwen to follow. She dashed forward through the sand, dirtying her slippers and feet in the process. She had to scale a dune, up the increasingly grassy climb. There she found a hunk of wood, which upon closer inspection proved to be a harp. </p>
<p>Arwen sat next to it.</p>
<p>“Our friend was in quite a hurry to avoid me,” Arwen declared, “for this carelessness he will have to return, or sing alone. And that I know he cannot countenance.”</p>
<p>His power stretched too far for him to manage it without accompaniment. Arwen had heard the barest traces of it her entire life, spreading like a blanket over all the western lands. It was like the power Arwen knew in the great rings her father and grandmother used to protect their realms, but thinner. It was ancient and foreign, and his songs made the nights lighter and the days clearer. All things were made just slightly… cleaner, or perhaps just warmer through his far reaching voice.</p>
<p>Frankly, Arwen could scarcely imagine Maglor beyond a beacon in the west of pulsing power, closer to one of the Two Trees in her imagination than a kinsman. </p>
<p>Such power, such… diligence. He protected everything up to the mountains with his feä, yet few even believed him to still be alive. Father believed. Arwen had tried to tell him when she was young, not quite understanding what her sweet, wispy friends were telling her.</p>
<p><em>Maglor lives</em>, the king had promised her, <em>there’s no need to grieve.</em></p>
<p>Arwen wasn’t quite sure about that. What did living mean? What warranted grief?</p>
<p>A tall Elf ambled in the distance, slowly coming closer. He wore dark rags, the bottoms of which had been paled by salt water and sand. His raven black hair was violently windswept. The eyes, though, Maglor’s eyes, that of one of the exiles… they were so bright that Arwen could not begin to guess the color. Not even when he came close enough for her to see how his nose was shaped the same way her mother’s was.</p>
<p>“Hello,” Maglor greeted in a croaky, ostensibly pleasant voice. “I don’t suppose you could pass me my harp?”</p>
<p>Arwen scooted closet, nearly on top of it.</p>
<p>“Maglor Feanorion,” she replied, “my father misses you.”</p>
<p>Maglor placed a hand on his heart, and closed his eyes for a moment. He swayed, and Arwen feared for him. But he didn’t falter. Maglor was dancing to a song that Arwen could only just hear. She felt it clearly, though, and swayed along with him. </p>
<p>“I would not offend your mother,” Maglor said wretchedly, at length.</p>
<p>Arwen had no answer to that. </p>
<p>“May I send word of you, then? At the very least.”</p>
<p>Maglor gave a hum that was almost almost a sigh, almost a moan. He looked away, towards the ocean. </p>
<p>“What would it help?” he whispered. Before Arwen could reply, though, he turned back to her with his burning gaze. “And you, my dear? Why have you followed me so determinedly? There is nothing to be gained from me.”</p>
<p>“I don’t think that’s for you to decide,” Arwen told him gently. “But as for the reason I have hunted the opportunity to speak to you… I bear a message.”</p>
<p>“Your father-”</p>
<p>“Father dares not hope aloud,” she snapped. Her father’s pain over the many holes in his family was ever present, and had been breaking Arwen’s heart for nearly two decades now, since she was first old enough to understand. She might sit here and argue with Maglor all day about the matter of Elrond. But she hadn’t started this trip for the living, nor would she end it for them.</p>
<p>Arwen stood, and swished her skirts to shake off the sand. She tried to meet Maglor’s burning eyes. </p>
<p>“Your father and brothers love you,” she declared. Calcified over many years by the sea, Maglor’s face did not move much. But she felt the sudden violent discord in his feä’s song, washing over her like a choppy tidal wave. Arwen had to brace herself before continuing. </p>
<p>“They are here with me, with you. And they love you, wish you to be happy and healthy and hale. They are sorry to have left you, but are… they are thankful.”</p>
<p>“Thankful,” Maglor laughed incredulously and wetly. “Forgive me, my dear, but my brothers would never speak-”</p>
<p>“So plainly or kindly or with so few vile curses? Yes, they would not. But, though I hear their voices, I hear their spirits far more clearly. They cannot lie to me, Maglor, and neither can you.”</p>
<p>Maglor paused for a long moment, her spirits crashing and pummeling against hers. It was almost overwhelming, though she knew he did not mean to be so. He was merely distressed, and unused to company that would be disturbed by such things.</p>
<p>“Child, I do not understand.”</p>
<p>“Do you not?” Arwen asked, trying to draw upon Maedhros’s infuriating calm. It made her stand up straighter. “You are the one who sustains them in this land, after all. You tether them to Arda, and then to Middle Earth. It is your song they followed instead of Mandos’s horn or the Oath’s wail to the Void. Your voice protects them from wraithdom. The notes of your harp have been salvation and torment for your brothers and father, brought to heel against your spirit by the laments you wrote for them. And then they watched you wonder, weeping for you. This is my message.”</p>
<p>Arwen reached down and picked up the harp. Then she placed it in Maglor’s unresponsive, scarred, bloody hands. It was… harder to face him, than her harmless ghosts. Though Maglor had paid his repentance more than they- Arwen truly believed that- he still had power about him. And though he used it to protect the western lands… Arwen still knew him to be a kinslayer.</p>
<p>To have tormented her family, through his sword and through his meaningless wandering.</p>
<p>And yet she closed his stunned fingers around his most powerful weapon, the battered harp that bore the Feanorian star. </p>
<p>“There are those who hate you and those who love you, and nothing will sway them from that. Nor should they be swayed. But some are still undecided. I think I can speak for myself, my brothers, and my infinitely kind mother when I say we would like the chance to decide, if just to offer Father some closure. You cannot pay your debt to all, but I consider what you have done to be enough for my purposes. As long as you keep using your songs to protect. Consider Imladris. In the meantime… Nelyo, Turko, Moryo, Curvo, Telvo, and Pityo, and Father love you. You need not be alone in body any longer. But in spirit you have <em>never been alone.</em>”</p>
<p>With her fingers wrapped around Maglor’s, they held his harp together. Then Arwen closed her eyes, and opened the floodgates of her feä. Maglor gasped as he felt it, the seven songs that haunted Arwen mingling around both his and hers. </p>
<p>Then he wept.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>In this house, we hold Maglor to account for his beach hobo crimes. </p>
<p>It's much easier to forgive dead men, in regards to Arwen's coldness here. After this, though, I bet he shows up at Rivendell to shower every few decades and play at grandad, giving the very grown kids sea shells and stuff. He and Elrond hug. Maglor and Celebrian had a long, long talk, and then forge a relationship. All is well (for now, we're still in the Long Peace).</p>
<p>Anyway, thank you so much for reading! And for any comments/kudos you might be inclined to leave!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Turkafinwë</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Celegorm helps Arwen get vengeance and justice for her mother.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mother went across the sea, and that was the first time Arwen truly heard words of the one they called ‘Cruel’.</p><p>She turned from the sight of the ship sailing away, and was confronted with a vision of a snarling wolf, foaming spit dripping from his curled lips and his silver fur stained like rust. Arwen was so tired, so drained, she didn’t even flinch. The feeling of the wolf was familiar, its snarls comforting like a particularly nasty thunderstorm. She knew all the beats even if she couldn’t defend against them. But her hunter wouldn’t harm her. Wary as Arwen had always been of Celegorm, she had never feared him.</p><p>“What do you wish?” he rasped, hot breath washing over the dock like a fierce breeze, taunting the others watching Mother go, as they could not hear his words. </p><p>Arwen regarded Celegorm stoically, her hands clenched around her black shawl. She was not a warrior; not one to seek either vengeance or justice. But Arwen was angry. Her fury was both righteous and selfish, and for once she had a task- a use- for the hunter. For any of her ghosts, really. </p><p>“Follow my brothers,” she said quietly, so low that she could not be heard over the sea wind. “Protect them, guide them, see that they return home. Help them avenge my mother.”</p><p>Gracefully, the wolf’s head dipped in a bow. Then he was gone, swirling wisps that were half-man and half-beast.</p><p>Arwen did not see or hear from Celegorm for months, as his brothers and her fire swirled around her in a worried frenzy. They were all trying to help soothe her pain through petting her hair, singing lowly, or offering some distraction. They stayed near and warm, and the consistency was hard to hate. But it was Celegorm’s absence that comforted Arwen most.</p><p>While Elladan and Elrohir roved the lands and reaved the orcs, Father worried. But Arwen didn’t. Mother’s fate would not come to them when Celegorm the Cruel stalked their steps. He would protect them, Arwen knew he would, or he could never show his face to her again. </p><p>She dreamed. They were visions of monsters with warped, patched skin and vile, rough noises coming from their mouths and gleaming, sharp fangs and claws. Some nights, the monsters were the orcs. On others, the terrifying creatures of nightmares were Elladan and Elrohir, covered in blood and screaming their pain and wielding their blades like extensions of themselves. The scenes came to her in shadows and flashes of light under the moon and stars, and Arwen woke with the smell of blood in her nose. </p><p>Through it all, the bright, smokey shape of a wolf stalked. Arwen saw carnage through his eyes, tasted flesh through his mouth, heard dying screams through his ears, and felt the softness of a dead body through his paws. She also felt Elladan and Elrohir, run ragged and taking nearly as many injuries as their enemies in their frenzy. Celegorm would go to them, and spare some of himself to heal their wounds or to temper their hearts. Arwen did, as well, reaching through Celegorm to reach her brothers.</p><p>Months later, a wolf stalked through the halls of Imladris to find Arwen once more. He presented his bloody visage to her like an offering, kneeling before her with his head low.</p><p>“My brothers?” Arwen asked solemnly, still dressed in black. She did not wait for an answer, standing quickly and making for the door.</p><p>“They hunt well,” Celegorm breathed out lowly, half a snarl. </p><p>Arwen left him, running down the hall. She threw herself at Elladan and Elrohir’s bloody forms- covered in both black and red blood- and they did not look entirely well or even clean, but they were alive. Their minds were whole and hearts quieter than when they began their quest. The twins spoke of phantom howls and flashes of teeth, limbs that seemed to rip off the orcs for no reason. They spoke of Celegorm- a monster of their family’s history- as a savior.</p><p>For a few weeks, Arwen was more than satisfied. She felt full and content, as pleased as a cat with a canary in its stomach. She was not happy, but she no longer felt like she was bleeding out. </p><p>Then Elladan and Elrohir left again. </p><p>Like a frigid breeze, their trails of dust cut through Arwen. She stood struck-dumb, watching them go, and suddenly that canary in her stomach was making her sick. At her shocked, frightened look, Celegorm bounded after them. But though she had begged him to make Elladan and Elrohir return, they did not come home, and the hunter could not make them. He could only help in their violence.</p><p>Arwen’s spirit crumbled like a rung-out handkerchief, and took to bed for some days.</p><p>She dreamed of blood and death and screaming again, but she also dreamt of her mother. Elladan and Elrohir were once more monsters, but this time, there was no sense of grim pleasure in being the nightmare instead of the tormented. Now, it only seemed cruel. </p><p>It was some months more before three blood-soaked monsters returned to Rivendell Valley. Their eyes still burned and their teeth were still bared and the satisfaction had drained from Elladan and Elrohir, as well, but they did not stop. They stayed long enough to eat like savage animals, then rode west to hunt more.</p><p>“What is wrong with them?” Arwen begged Celegorm, angry tears coming to her eyes, “What is wrong with me?” she wailed. Nothing made it feel better, all she had was a bottomless pit in her stomach and great battle in her chest. An inferno of fury blazed, only to be drowned by a tidal wave of sorrow. Then the fire burned away the sorrow, and the cycle started anew. </p><p>Cautiously, like a twice-shy animal, Celegorm drew near her kneeling form on the floor. He bumped his head against her shoulder, and sighed. </p><p>“Vengeance… cauterizes a wound. But it leaves its own burn that must heal. It might become infected, by the evil whispers on the wind, or Orcish blood, or your own weakness. Once you let go of the reins on yourself once, it becomes easier to sink and sink into that pit of tar, until it becomes nearly impossible to escape. Most of the time, you no longer desire to leave. The burn… it is easy to want, when everything else hurts. At least then you control the fire that’s hardening your spirit and body. At least you need not be afraid.”</p><p>“Is that what happened to you?” she sniffed.</p><p>There was a long pause, where Arwen reluctantly leaned her head against ghostly fur in exhaustion, too busy trying to swallow her sobs to hold herself up. </p><p>Then Celegorm growled, “Yes.”</p><p>At dawn, Celegorm followed after Elladan and Elrohir. This time, Arwen sent him away with a different command.</p><p>“Save my brothers, Celegorm.”</p><p>She saw only one vision, in the next few weeks. Upon a field of carnage, two Elves stood. In front of them, a lone wolf stared them down. He howled, and the sound was echoing and mournful. The moon, the grass, the trees, the birds, rodents, foxes, and wargs shuddered to hear him. Then they copied him, letting out a great, unified cry of grief. They wailed for the land, for the animals and plants and all living things. For the Elves, the Men, the Dwarves, and the Orcs, as well. </p><p>They sang the sorrow of Arda, and of all the corrupted things. </p><p>Elladan and Elrohir came running home, tears in their eyes and the wounds on their souls bared open. They fell into Father’s protective grasp and did not go out hunting again for a long time.</p><p>Arwen held her brothers, as well, and they drowned their family fury in a long expunging of sorrow. They cried until there was nothing left but razed land in their souls and mud. But from that, flowers would grow, Father promised. </p><p>Much later, Arwen returned to her chambers. There she found a clean, silver wolf curled-up on her rug. She fell to her knees next to him, and wrapped her arms around his great, furry neck. Celegorm startled up, but Arwen just held tighter, burying her face in his scruff. </p><p>“Thank you,” she said, in a wretched, wet voice.</p><p>Celegorm remained still, and gave a low whine of distress. She had never acknowledged him in such a way before, never been open or thankful or kind to him in such a way before. But now Arwen only wished to lean into Celegorm, and feel warm and safe.</p><p>Slowly, he unwound, and pulled his soft head around to give a gentle lick to her forehead. It was just awkward enough a gesture that Arwen laughed. She kissed his snout, and let the hunter wrap around her as she slept, and dreamt peacefully for the first time since her mother had gone across the sea.</p><p>The next day, with her brothers returned to her and Celegorm sleeping at her feet, Arwen felt hopeful again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is just dog propaganda tbh.</p><p>So yeah, Arwen is more and less keen on certain Feanorians, as is only fair. Celegorm was an especially difficult one to work around, considering Arwen looks like Luthien. Just imagine that as some point Arwen asks him (after they have a better relationship) if Celegorm thinks she's beautiful, and he's like, "1) I watched you grow up, don't be gross. 2) I identify as Ainur-sexual, I am attracted to the incarnate servants of Eru. You don't have enough Maia blood for the kinky stuff I'm into (cue is brothers going, "ew, ew, this is so much more than I ever wanted to know about you."). 3) You're very pretty, cute little niece, now why don't you go hang out with that Sindar prince, he can talk to trees, that's very attractive."</p><p>Anyway, thank you so much for reading! And for any comments and/or kudos you might feel inclined to leave!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Morifinwë</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arwen and Caranthir discuss Men, and the choices Elves have regarding them. Or lack thereof.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Caranthir hated Aragorn.</p><p>	Arwen didn’t believe Caranthir had hated Estel when he was young, or even when he first left her father’s house. But then she and Aragorn had retreated under the mallorn trees of her grandparents’ realm, and emerged with the concern of her father, the amusement of her brothers, and Caranthir’s ire. </p><p>The other ghosts were just sad.</p><p>	Her fire had never been vocal, and was not now, while Maedhros wished her luck and warned her about love’s keen grief. Celegorm and Curufin whispered amongst themselves- making despairing comparisons to another famous couple- but kept their peace. They almost seemed grimly amused, for want of anything better to feel. Ambarussa had a lot to say, all of it happy and welcoming, almost forcibly so. It was Amrod who asked, <em>Does this mean that you will pass as the Men do?</em></p><p>	Arwen didn’t know. </p><p>	She didn’t have to renounce her Elvendom to marry Aragorn. Not really. Arwen tried to keep that in mind.</p><p>	Her indecision made Caranthir blisteringly mad, and he leveled that anger directly upon Aragorn’s head.</p><p>	“There is,” Arwen muttered to Estel once as they lounged upon the grasses of Rivendell Valley, “a First Age Elf, fell and mighty, a proven kinslayer and killer of Men, as well, standing right above you, glowering.”</p><p>	“What grievance does this Elf have with me? Have I offended him in some way?”</p><p>	“No. It is my love for you that offends him.”</p><p>	Aragorn leaned in just slightly to brush his lips against hers. “As well he should be offended,” he whispered upon her mouth, “for they that haunt you love you, and your love of me threatens that. Perhaps he is merely scared.”</p><p>	“He is scared. I am scared, and so are you. But fear is a poison, and I will not countenance it. I have feared too much in the past, and will fear nothing more.”</p><p>	“You are so brave,” Aragorn muttered, his brows knit in awe and sorrow. “But perhaps fear is like most weeds. Both a poison and a medicine, depending upon the hands that mold it.”</p><p>	Arwen hummed, then said, “I think you are right. Let fear cleanse rather than pollute us then. And I will still feel the same about the trajectory of my life.”</p><p>	They leaned in to kiss once more, but their embrace did not last long. Their pleasure was swiftly interrupted by Caranthir’s absolutely deafening cry of disgust.</p><p>	“Ugh!”</p><p>	Arwen laughed and laughed until it infected Aragorn, and then they went home, hand in hand. A muttering, simmering ghost followed, making sure they stayed a certain distance apart.</p><p>Soon, Aragorn rode north again. The east was more than stirring these days, and the roads were horrendously dangerous, and the Men needed a leader. But Arwen hated to watch him go. She retreated to her chambers, cooked a pot of tea- one of Bilbo’s blends- dragged a soft chair over to a window, and settled with some embroidery for the purpose of a good sulk. She had barely stitched the start of some wonky hooves when Caranthir materialized across from her.</p><p>Fully-formed, clothed, and with carefully rendered expressions, Caranthir sat cross legged in another chair. He was oddly vain like that, none of the others bothered to look so much like one of the Children. They appeared as lights, or flames, or wolves, or twisting hulks of metal, or a melody. Ambarussa were always switching forms. But Caranthir presented as he once was, whenever it was convenient, freckled and flushed and scarred in places. Arwen believed that she would choose to have pink hair, if she could decide how she looked with such ease. But that was not her fate.</p><p>Might never be her fate, though Arwen used to imagine what it would be like to be a ghost. She’d planned on it, should the worst come to pass. These days, the worst felt like it was drawing near. To think, she picked now to be uncertain.</p><p>Caranthir snorted.</p><p>“Then do not be uncertain. The path of Men is not for you.”</p><p>“That is not for you to decide.”</p><p>“Nothing has been decided!” His voice caused her tea set to rattle, and Arwen gave an affronted gasp. She narrowed her eyes to show her disapproval, and Caranthir continued more quietly, “The indecision is the problem.”</p><p>Arwen huffed. “A little time to consider is important, don’t you think? Considering what I would be sacrificing?”</p><p>Caranthir’s form grew transparent around the edges in his agitation.</p><p>“I know,” he hissed, and it sounded like wind blowing through wheat. “Your family. Your position. Your <em>duty</em>. Has that occurred to you? That you have a duty to your family, to Imladris, and to all the Elves of the west lands?”</p><p>Arwen’s fingers tightened around her wheel, but she kept her voice low and calm. Most people of Rivendell were used to hearing her speak to nothing these days, but she still tried to avoid disturbing them with such things. It used to scare them awfully, and old habits die hard.</p><p>“That has not escaped my notice, nor has your disdain for what I would trade that duty for. You do understand that this is a trade, do you not? A duty to Elves, for a duty to Men. The life I currently live for one that is just as full and vibrant.”</p><p>This time, Caranthir did not bother to speak, but Arwen felt his indignation all the same.</p><p>I <em>have never insinuated such a thing. </em></p><p>Some of Arwen’s bristling subsided, and she sat back in her plush chair. No, he did not insinuate that a life among Men would be lesser. The trader, the cosmopolitan, the famous diplomat of the isolationist Feanorian sect… he would not imply such things. There were too many rumors.</p><p>“Are you jealous?” Arwen asked, causing Caranthir to immediately go incorporeal.</p><p>It took some time for him to reform, carefully painting his legs and arms first, before pulling together his torso. The face materialized slowly, detail by agonizing detail. When finally Caranthir had pulled himself together, he spoke.</p><p>“She had her duty, and I mine. Our people needed us. There was no choice. And if history has shown us anything, it’s that the Sindar could have used Luthien, as well, rather than her child-son that they crowned. Do not abandon those that need you for a fickle love!”</p><p>“This is not the First Age!” Arwen snapped.</p><p>In response, Carnathir vaulted from his chair, setting the tea set and the shudders rattling. </p><p>“No,” he bellowed, “it is not! But it might very well be the last!”</p><p>“I know that!” Arwen screamed back, standing as well. “You sound like Father, and I assure you that the warnings are just as useless coming from your mouth!”</p><p>Father, with his kingship ultimatum.</p><p>Ha! He’d told Aragorn that if he came back from the war alive, then they could marry. He’d been ensuring that they didn’t tie themselves together until victory was assured, and it made Arwen’s blood boil. As if she would be so fairweather.</p><p>But Caranthir sneered, “Your father is wiser than you. Would you be Queen of Ashes? Of corpses and betrayal and scavenging! That is what the Men will give you in defeat, Arwen!”</p><p>“And what do the Elves give in defeat?” she replied, louder than she should, with anger stretching her voice and tears in her eyes. “Retreat? Abandonment? Hiding? <em>Kinslaying?</em>”</p><p>Caranthir flickered again.</p><p>“I am Arwen Undomiel, and everyone else has seen fit to cast me in the role of Luthien. But I would style myself after Elros Tar-Minyatur! And should this be the last of ages, or should Aragorn never return, I will still go north, to Halbarand, to the Dunedain, to the Rangers! And I will be a Woman among them until my last, giving whatever I have! </p><p>“I am not a warrior,” she spat, choking on a sob, “Nor a ruling lady in Imladris. Our valley is emptying, the only ones who stay are here to fight. There are others who will die here, they don’t need me to guide those who would not ride to battle. Because there are none! But the Men cannot send their vulnerable to escape across the sea… I will not insult them to say that they need me. But I would give word of Aragorn’s fate to his people. I would offer myself in his place. Because if he dies in the east, it will have been for my sake rather than there’s… He would not leave them now if not for Father’s condition. No, I will not squander that. Should it be among ashes or ivory, I will die a Woman!”</p><p>Arwen finally reopened the eyes that she had not realized she’d closed. Caranthir still stood before her, but… there was a sorrowful smile upon his face.</p><p>“Then it seems the decision has long since been made. Congratulations on admitting it.”</p><p>	In a flicker, he was gone. </p><p>Arwen collapsed into the chair, a hand rested faintly upon her heart.</p><p>	So, it seemed the decision had been made.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>We can just subtitle this one 'I'm tired of Arwen discourse'. </p><p>This is my take on the matter! I honestly had a lot more to say, but this one had already gotten too long, sooooo, take it as is! More comparing Arwen to Elros (a KING and a QUEEN) and less to Luthien (light of my life, love of my heart, was a hippie magical girl and fucked off to the woods with her boyfriend, we stan; but that is just not Arwen's story). Also... maybe Andreth and Aegnor? Idk, but I think there are less tilled comparisons to make. Anyway, I hope you liked it!</p><p>Thank you so much for reading, and any comments/kudos you might feel inclined to leave!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Curufinwë</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arwen learns how to create items of power. It's hard.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arwen was nearly two thousand when her first teacher declared that she was a master embroideress. Directly after Arwen’s moment of victory, though, the smith snorted, breaking through her warm pride and bright accomplishment like frigid water down her back. He loomed over her shoulder, looking down at her tapestry that depicted Eregion as her mother had described it, and Arwen could feel his evaluation as it formed. </p><p>	Interest in her work, pleasure in what she had produced, sorrow at the picture, annoyance towards her teacher, and anger. The anger was always swirling around Curufin- Arwen could not bear to listen to conversations about Sauron because of it- but this time his ire was quieter. He was angry that Arwen would think to give up on improving.</p><p><em>These Elves have grown lazy,</em> he declared. <em>If they think they have nothing more to learn, and nothing more to teach you, I will attend to your education. You, at least, will not be lazy. You, at least, will know power.</em></p><p><em>Arrogant</em>, Arwen cursed him, but allowed the smoke of his spirit to guide her hands, all the same. </p><p>The smith knew some, but only a little about embroidery and weaving and tailoring. Their lessons were not about such things. They were about feär and power; magic, as the Men would call it. Arwen had learned some of this from her grandmother, weaving cloaks with Galadriel and her handmaidens. One prayed to Lorien and Vairë and Tauron for protection, to strengthen the fibers and to blend with the natural world. Arwen would sing and whisper to her cloth until it responded to her by fading away, just like she wanted.</p><p>The magic that Aragorn’s rangers were awed by was really just a matter of making requests from things that normally didn’t like to talk. Arwen loved to talk. She was very good at infusing her works with specialized power. </p><p>Curufin’s techniques were different.</p><p>Her father would call them dangerous, foolishly declare that such things were the ruin of Celebrimbor in Curufin’s ghostly presence. </p><p>In response, the smith sat in Father’s office for weeks, pulling books off shelves. But that was only after he disappeared for some days, likely off haunting the ruins of Eregion. Some of her ghosts would do that sometimes, haunt other locales. Curufin was the one most prone to wanderlust. </p><p>He always returned, though, and when he did, it was back to the grind for Arwen.</p><p>Harnessing her own spirit was much harder than coaxing and corralling others’. </p><p>It was a gruelling technique, something no one had practiced since the Second Age, and it required centuries of trial and error. For days at a time sometimes, she would sit with Curufin’s smoke encompassing her, and she would breathe and pull, trying to drag her spirit to the forefront. Inevitably, her spirit would either disperse and fizzle away, or react violently to the… somewhat unnatural uses she was putting it towards.</p><p>“It is not <em>unnatural</em>,” Curufin would all but screech. “Just because something is hard, doesn’t mean it’s unnatural. It is hard to climb mountains, hard to calculate advanced sums, hard to stitch detailed scenes, but the burn that comes with the victory is… Would it be too ironic if I said that is the only thing worth living for?”</p><p>Arwen did not reply, too busy trying to visualize her fingertips as glowing spots of pure creation- whatever <em>that</em> meant, the pure gibberish, she didn’t care if it made more sense in Quenya. But within her ever thinking mind, Arwen questioned where family fell on the scale of things worth living for. Only when she was rationalizing her willing loss of her birth family centuries later, did Arwen understand his reply.</p><p>“Bah, family is hard. That is the lie they tell you, child, that things that are good and right are easy. They aren’t, virtually never. Eru would not have made us imperfect, if he had not intended for us to struggle.”</p><p>
  <em>Perhaps we are meant to find peace with our imperfection instead. Sometimes struggle is just in vain.</em>
</p><p>“That’s a weak mentality.”</p><p>Arwen’s anger flared, and her spirit rippled through her body, causing her fingers to spark and burn painfully. She yelped, and stood rapidly, shaking out her hands and longing for her father. She was about to banish Curufin, who was humming in dissatisfaction, but Maedhros interrupted.</p><p>
  <em>Peace, peace. Did it not occur to either of you that you’re both right?</em>
</p><p>Arwen stomped off.</p><p>Later, though, as her father healed her aching fingers, she asked his opinion.</p><p>He replied, “I’d say… True wisdom, perhaps, is being able to differentiate between struggle in vain and struggle for purpose. Appreciating imperfection, but also acknowledging when you are using that imperfection as an excuse for your poor behaviour.”</p><p><em>Like an Oath?</em> Arwen wondered, snidely, just trying to be mean. But, unexpectedly, Curufin touched her heart once and said, <em>Yes.</em></p><p>The next day, Arwen went back to practice, and it was as good an apology as either of them would get from the other. That afternoon, she managed to concentrate her spirit in her fingers, and they celebrated together for one night. Morning rose again, Arwen was set to transferring the spirit into her stitching, and the whole thing started over again.</p><p>It was gruelling. Curufin was not a demonstrative and affectionate teacher, but, unfortunately for Arwen’s ego, he was a good one. He was patient.</p><p>“Of course! A quick-tempered instructor is a poor one. There is a reason I was requested more than Father to teach the young ones.”</p><p>“Did you enjoy it?” Arwen asked, thinking of Celebrimbor, someone she had never met but felt she knew. His family thought of him often. They grieved; they loved. </p><p>Curufin did not reply, but Arwen didn’t need an answer.</p><p>Centuries later, Arwen stitched a white tree upon a black banner, bleeding <em>protection</em>, and <em>courage</em>, and <em>strength</em>, and <em>resilience</em>, and <em>power</em>. Her banner would flutter above Aragorn’s host, and it would bolster them all. It would. If Arwen had to pour everything she had into it, the White Tree would shield Gondor’s people, even just a little. </p><p>Herself and her work aglow, Arwen quietly called Curufin to the forefront and said, <em>I’m sorry.</em></p><p>
  <em>Don’t be, child.</em>
</p><p>“I am. I never really considered Elvenhome for myself, but now it occurs to me that I truly will never be able to deliver you to your son.”</p><p>“You never would have been able. Valinor has always been barred to the kinslayers. Had we tried to follow you across the sea, it would have been to the prison-cells for us. Oh, the singers would have loved that. ‘The jail-crows of Mandos’, spare me.”</p><p><em>And we never would have left Macalaurë</em>, Ambarussa chimed in.</p><p>“If you say so,” Arwen replied, sorrow in her heart, and tears falling from her eyes. She could feel how close the end was now. Her banner, the war, Gondor… it was all so close. It had never felt so close before. Tears that she set to use- filling them with feä and letting them coat her thread- made the white branches sparkle with life. “I’m still sorry.”</p><p>Gentle smoke wrapped around her hands and nudged her spirit, as it has a thousand times when she was first learning. </p><p>
  <em>Once more, don’t be sorry. Merely… play your part in ridding my son’s killer from these lands. And then build your own life from the ashes of all he has wrought. It has been a struggle to get here. I’m sure the result, then, will be absolutely beautiful, Arwen.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Curufin believes in the Will to Power.</p><p>I have a lot of headcanons about the Feanorions as teachers, and I think Maedhros, Curufin, and Celegorm (I know he's hasty tempered, but his two baby brothers are hunters, you cannot convince me he didn't teach them and they love him for it) are the best. I like to imagine that Maglor's wife was a musician like him, but she primarily taught and conducted because she loved people; meanwhile, he was an AWFUL teacher, and everyone he's ever tried to teach to sing or play hate him.</p><p>Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this! Thank you for reading, and for any comments/kudos you might feel inclined to leave, as I love them all so much!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Ambarussa</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arwen's ghosts see her off.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When she was young and frightened of the wisps of spirit that followed her, Galadriel and Celeborn’s domain had been Arwen’s safe haven. She had not known what it was about Lothlorien that made her ghosts loathe to enter the forest. One by one, though, they would refuse to step past the treeline, the Nimrodel, the scope of Nenya’s power, where they thought Lady Galadriel might see. One by one, they abandoned her.</p><p>	Except for Ambarussa.</p><p>	They would hover around Grandfather’s shoulders, teasing and laughing, or follow the Marchwardens through the Goldenwood, exploring every inch of it. They leaned over the Mirror, incorporeal, but looking so close to tipping it over. More than once, Arwen had held her breath as Grandmother just barely tilted her gaze towards the two connected balls of light that tormented her attempts at seer-work. </p><p>	Galadriel never quite saw, but she came the closest. It was like how Father never truly heard, but he came the closest to truly listening. </p><p>	It was Grandmother who sat her upon a stool and told her to look into the waters. </p><p>	“Hello,” Grandmother had said, a gentle hand on the back of Arwen’s head to make sure she kept looking at the scene in the water. What Arwen saw was herself, looking in the water with her grandmother standing near, the exact moment she had been living, but from a different angle. </p><p>	<em>Artanis, Artanis</em>, the two had jingled, <em>Do you not recognize us?</em></p><p>	“They say you should recog-” Arwen had whispeed, but Grandmother shushed her.</p><p>	Grandmother held out her hand, and the one that Arwen now knew was Amrod sat there. </p><p>	“Yes,” Galadriel had breathed out and millennia of age had gone with it. She looked like a Valinorin maid once more. “There is something familiar about you. You remind me of… of a lamp.”</p><p>	Amras had thought that the perfect time for a jolly joke, and flared with light that only Arwen could truly see. But Grandmother had perceived a little. She’d sucked in a breath, and suddenly ages of grief and turmoil returned to Galadriel’s face.</p><p>	“Uncle,” she’d whispered, and Arwen wasn’t quite sure she was supposed to hear that, “What fresh pandemonium is this? What did you create this time?”</p><p>	Arwen told her grandmother, centuries later, what new nonsense her family had created, though this experiment in spirit and light belonged to Maglor, not Feanor. And Grandmother had laughed. She’d opened her vast and expansive spirit, the most powerful in the eastern lands. Perhaps in all of Middle Earth, Arwen would say; between Galadriel and Maglor, it was a matter of quality and quantity. </p><p>	“Ambarussa,” Grandmother had said, with tears in her eyes. “My friends, my cousins.”</p><p>	So long had the loneliness persisted, so old were the wounds, so many were the regrets… Arwen considered translating between her grandmother and her two, fearless ghosts, but decided against it. Nothing needed to be said. Instead, she thought to herself, <em>This is why they do not cower from the Lady of Lothlorien, while their older brothers flee.</em></p><p>	Her fire, which perpetually rested near Arwen’s heart and was much harder for others to perceive, sniffed haughtily. </p><p>	Arwen had laughed. </p><p>	The memory still kept her warm, now that she walked the fading Goldenwood. No longer was it as bright as a jewel. Instead the leaves looked like the dying embers of a cold fire. The empty talans creaked with the wind, and the moaning and whispering of the air almost sounded like the cries of ghosts. But even that was too much to ask for.</p><p>	The king was with Eldarion.</p><p>	The singer was watching the last of the boats from the shore.</p><p>	The hunter stalked her brothers, ensuring Elladan and Elrohir were safe on their last survey of the western lands.</p><p>	The trader was in Ithilien, observing Eomer’s descendants and Eowyn’s grandchildren discuss the construction of a paved road between Rohan and Gondor. </p><p>	The smith roamed the halls of Aglarond with a critical eye, overseeing Gimli’s realm in their time of transition, now that he had sailed.</p><p>	The two remained with Arwen, haunting her grandparents’ deserted realm. It was lonely, sad work, as somedays Arwen couldn’t help but clean the gleaming arches of her childhood. Others, she spent long hours staring at Galadriel’s Mirror, now just a basin that was overrun with moss and ivy. </p><p><em>It deserves the respect of proper keeping,</em> Arwen told herself, but could not bear to maintain the glorified bird bath. The forest would subsume it in time; after Arwen’s time. She would just be delaying the inevitable. </p><p>Her own death was inevitable.</p><p><em>You chose this</em>, Arwen tried to remember, and it did not quail the fear. Reminding herself of her choice did not halt the loneliness; all her self-preparation for this slow demise was but a balm. It was eating her alive, and Arwen didn’t know if this was death or dying or just despair. It felt distinctly like… a Mannish condition. Not even that was a consolation. </p><p>“What did dying feel like?” Arwen asked the dark leaves and the empty city. </p><p>She felt the glance Ambarussa exchanged.</p><p><em>Like everything I had ever been was burned away in one instant,</em> Amrod said, despairingly.</p><p><em>Like I was released from a weight I didn’t even know I was carrying,</em> Amras said, reverently.</p><p><em>It was terrible, it was freeing,</em> Ambarussa said together.</p><p>Arwen merely let out a deep sigh, not really comforted or upset. An Elf’s evaluation of death really meant nothing to her situation, unfortunately. She wasn’t even sure why she asked. Perhaps, she was going mad. Arwen snorted at the thought. Then a witch truly would haunt these woods, a crazy, old woman, who wasn’t quite right. Arwen already talked to herself.</p><p>“What will happen to you?” she said to the stars, knowing that the twins were listening.</p><p>They didn’t reply, but their answer came to her all the same.</p><p>
  <em>Don’t know.</em>
</p><p>“Will we see each other again?”</p><p>
  <em>Don’t know.</em>
</p><p>“How long will Maglor last?”</p><p>
  <em>Don’t know.</em>
</p><p>“Do you know anything?”</p><p>This time, Amrod and Amras laughed.</p><p><em>Mother would say we’re not supposed to know anything. Knowledge gathering is just an exercise in understanding the scope of your ignorance,</em> Amrod said.</p><p><em>Father would say that we’ll know everything in time. We just have to wait and experience certain things as they come. How about we tell you about our eventual fates after they’ve happened? </em>Amras asked.</p><p>Arwen laughed, despite herself.</p><p>She was dying. She was so afraid. She wasn’t alone, though.</p><p>She tried to remind herself of Aragorn, of letting fear cleanse, rather than pollute her. She took strength from his memory, which haunted her nearly as well as her ghosts. She would be with him soon. </p><p>Arwen laid beneath the golden leaves that were golden no more, and breathed her last as a Woman who was an Elf no more. Around her gathered seven figures, each different, each terrible and great, each who had loved her in their own ways throughout her life. A warm, solid hand- calloused from plucking strings- pulled her head into his lap, and petted her hair as he sang. Warmth bracketed her on all sides, holding her, but Arwen was grateful for the corporeal body. </p><p>Ambarussa rested closest, and Arwen cradled them like she would her own brothers, until her grip slackened.</p><p>Then, in her final eight heartbeats, Arwen was encompassed by a fire that burned until her spirit was gone. The remains of her body followed, leaving only ash.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>(Insert screaming here) Whelp. This was tagged Character Death for a reason. </p><p>I like the idea that Galadriel and Ambarussa were awful, awful friends in Valinor, and remained unabashedly fond of each other, even in Beleriand. Entirely unrelated, but I also hc that Galadriel and Curufin had this love/hate friendship, where they were low-key each other's fav cousin, but would never admit it because, '"he/she is my NEMESIS, MOM." They liked to do science together, then argue about who's name would go first on the paper they wrote in crayon. </p><p>Anyway, one (1) more to go! Thank you so much for reading, and for any comments and/or kudos you might feel inclined to leave!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Nerdanel</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Nerdanel receives a letter from a dead girl.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On one of many hundreds of thousands of days of the infinite years, two boys knocked on Nerdanel’s door. There was something slightly odd about their faces, but Nerdanel could never quite put her finger on what. One was quicker to smile than the other, but they both held that otherworldly sorrow that was so often seen in the Returned. </p><p>The boys… the twins, they introduced themselves as Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Elrond Peredhel.</p><p>Nerdanel has met Elrond. He’s a good boy. A deeply sad boy, another of the ones hurt by her own sons. And loved by them, Elrond claimed. He spoke a little of Maitimo and Macalaurë; especially of Macalaurë, who allegedly still lived. Elrond promised he’d return to talk again, but hadn't. Nerdanel wasn’t surprised, she hadn’t been particularly enthusiastic about his presence, and time was so easy to lose for the Returned. She’d probably slipped his mind. Elrond no doubt had many more people to meet with, to apologize to and reminisce with and be unfairly kind towards. </p><p>Now his sons had come to patronize a reclusive lady under the name of kindness. At least they had the good grace not to stay long. </p><p>Elladan and Elrohir- Nerdanel would never grow accustomed to the sound of Sindarin names, all those harsh endings- tarried long enough to have tea. They spoke of one of their grandfathers who brought them seashells and songs. They nattered on about the war, but only a little. They were both fond of dogs, which Nerdanel took as an opportunity to express the virtues of having a cat around one’s studio. Mostly, the twins talked about their sister, who reportedly was a very odd little elleth who spoke to herself, then a sweet but troubled young lady who enjoyed embroidering with her grandmother- little Artanis, Ambarussa’s playmate- and finally grew into a bright and wise Woman.</p><p>“We’d tell you what it all was that scared Mother and Father so badly when she was young-"</p><p>“-but we’ll let Arwen speak for herself!”</p><p>They told her in detail about Gondor, finished off the cakes she’d hastily assembled for them, then left. Before they departed, Elladan- the quieter one who she had to tell herself not to equate to Pityo- handed her a wooden box. Nerdanel recognized the workmanship as… that Telerin-Nandorin blend that came out of the east. It wasn’t even a terribly well-made box. She raised an eyebrow at him.</p><p>“A gift,” he said, with mischief in his smile but sadness in his eyes, “from our sister.”</p><p>“We’ll come for another visit soon with Mother and Father!” Elrohir called over his shoulder, all boundless enthusiasm to try to hide the grief radiating from him. Nerdanel just nodded her assent to his proposed visit, because she couldn’t bear to turn him down.</p><p>Then Nerdanel was left behind with some shoddy craftsmanship and a promise. </p><p>She huffed, and resolved to try to salvage the day they had interrupted. But the moment she placed the box down to try and get back to her statues, she felt guilty. The boys were so enthusiastic and kind… For some reason, they truly seemed to think of her as family, and Nerdanel found that harder to resent in them than in others. The Peredhel, they understood what it meant to lose and never have a loved one returned. </p><p>The words of their dead sister likely rested in that box. </p><p>Nerdanel had always had a hard time forgetting about the dead.</p><p>Quite against her good judgement, Nerdanel cracked open the wooden box, and found scores of papers inside, all bundled up in various packages tied with different colored strings. On the top rested one folded sheet of paper, upon which was written ‘Nerdanel’ in sweeping handwriting. It was sealed, and the emblem in the wax showed a tree with a star overtop it.</p><p>Rather than break the noble sigil, Nerdanel went to find her letter opener and dug the knife beneath the wax, to pull it up.  </p><p>She unfolded the letter gently, and snorted at the overly stiff Quenya inside. Nerdanel wished she could have told the girl that she spoke and read Sindarin, or maybe that the language of Valinor had changed drastically from what the Exiles took to Beleriand. But that was a foolish dream. </p><p>Nerdanel tried to put away fancies, and began to read.</p><p>
  <em>Dear Nerdanel Istarnië,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I have written this letter probably a hundred times. Sometimes, I despised my own words and tossed the papers into the fire. Other times, I was quite pleased with my letter, but it grew out-dated before I could send it along. I thought for some years that I would deliver this to you myself, then I planned to send it along with my father, but eventually it came to pass that my brothers are my messengers. I realized nearly two-hundred years ago that the story I had been writing to you since my coming of age was almost at a close. It seemed only fair that I wait until my last before recounting, so I could give you a full scope of the life I have lived. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>From the time I was born, I have been able to perceive what my child mind dubbed ‘wisps’. They had words! They spoke to me and played with me and guided me and protected me and taught me. I was very fond of them. As I grew older, and my parents began to perceive that my imaginary friends were not terribly imaginary, it became obvious that my wisps were truly feär ripped from their previous vessels. They existed in spirit form, tethered by a song from the coast, but perceivable only by me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sometime later, I came to the conclusion that these wisps were ghosts, rather than failed attempts at creating life through untried means- I phrase it this way because I have been scolded for use of the word ‘unnatural’ too many times to use it in good comfort. Back to my point though, in time, I made certain guesses and assumptions about the identities of my ghosts. I knew them all so well, you see. I knew their personalities, their natures, their likes and dislikes, their strengths and weaknesses. I knew who they loved and who they missed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eventually, I confirmed that my ghosts were in fact the disembodied spirits of six of the sons of Feanor, and the spirit of fire himself.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What an odd fate to befall me! To be haunted by figures such as they! This fate and it's haunting have come to define me, in some ways.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I might recount to you my lifetime, and how deeply it has been influenced by your family, Lady Nerdanel. I could tell you about how Maedhros guided me, how Maglor brought this blessing and curse upon me, how Celegorm guided my brothers and I through grief, how Caranthir badgered me into being unashamed of my choice to be a Woman, how Curufin taught me how to better my craft, how Ambarussa made me laugh and fended off my loneliness throughout my lifetime. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I have recounted much of this for you, in another set of letters in the box my brothers have hopefully delivered to you in full.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>At this time, though, I want to assure you of something.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your family yet lives- in a fashion- in Arda, and they love you and each other more deeply than the night sky and more vastly than the ocean they crossed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I have enclosed their own words to you, scribed by my hand.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You may not believe me or my claims- and I would not blame you for that- but my haunting can be verified by my family, including my grandmother, Galadriel, who I understand you are acquainted with. The story of the fish pond and the metal crab is perhaps my favorite of Grandmother. I understand it is a favorite of yours, as well?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I must inform you, though, that Feanor has never been quite as whole as the others. He speaks less and interacts with the world less and presents himself less. He is aware, and has dictated some messages to you, but it is sparse, as has been his way for as long as I have known him. I think that, perhaps, the ancient techniques of the Noldor, that of infusing one’s spirit into one’s craft, took too deep a toll upon him. Curufin and I have discussed the possibilities, but have no answer to offer you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Similarly, I cannot be certain Maglor has written you. I told him that he must deliver letters to Elladan and Elrohir at the Grey Havens or I will be severely disappointed, but alas. Father had also commanded that Maglor must sail, that his penance has been served, but he refuses, so I cannot guess at his letter writing skills. Only time will tell.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I can only hope this will be enough.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thank you, Lady Nerdanel, for your time. I do not know what Eru Iluvatar has planned for us, in his wisdom. I cannot fathom what Dagor Dagorath will look like, nor what the world thereafter will hold for us. But I hope we might meet, you and I. And I hope that my ghosts and your sons and husband might be able to meet with us, as well.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Be well and be happy!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>With love,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>	Arwen Undomiel, Queen of Gondor</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>By the by, I like to imagine that Maglor sails not long after Arwen dies. He takes his brothers and father with him, and they go to the Halls of Mandos. It is considered that their service to Arwen was enough that they will not be 'permanently imprisoned' there and kinda don't have to stay long, and they worked through most of their issue of the course of trying to help raise Arwen. Unfortunately, Feanor simply doesn't have enough spirit to be re-embodied until the breaking fo the Silmarils. He will have to wait, but the rest get to restart their lives.</p><p>Also, Legolas made that box for Arwen, and that's why it sucks. A wood-carver he is not, but Gimli wanted him to try making things. Legolas gave it to Arwen for her begetting day one year, and she was like, 'I can't have this become a family heirloom or a historical item. Sending it West!'</p><p>Anyway, thank you for sticking with me throughout this! This little story actually came to mean a lot more to me over the course of writing than when I started it, but I suppose that's how that goes most of the time. I hope you enjoyed it! Thank you so so much for reading, and thank you for any comments/kudos you have left (which were so great as I persevered to finish this over the course of this rather trying week) and for any anyone might leave in the future!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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